


Scars from the Past

by EggboyDraco



Series: Scars [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Memories, POV Solas, Redcliffe, Scars, Sera Being Sera, Solas Being Solas, Solas Spoilers, Solas is an Egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggboyDraco/pseuds/EggboyDraco
Summary: I don't know. I just really like the tropes around scars simply because of the history associated with them and stuff. I also find them really interesting and intimate, something that's a key to their past and offers depth to the character. I also really like the trope of a character looking immensely badass with loads of awesome scars. Sue me.Let me know what you thought.





	Scars from the Past

The Hinterlands were awash with chaos. Mages and Templars battled each other in any open space, with those of them who weren't fighting left wandering the woods, scouring for more enemies but attacking anyone on sight. Civilians were forced to become refugees to escape as much of the conflict as possible. Forced to leave everything behind them, they suffered under the boot of a war that would have been completely avoidable. 

Divine Justinia, a reasonable and progressive woman before her untimely demise, had tried to orchestrate peace between the conflicting groups. For a minute, at the Conclave, it had seemed possible. There was no need for conflict or further death. Peace could be achieved. But then it had all been blown to shit and the sky had been ripped open. The Divine was dead. 

The Herald had halted the Breach's progression, with some input from his theory. After all, Solas had kept it from killing her while she slept, recovering from being pulled from the Fade. How she'd survived such raw exposure remained unfathomable to him.

And now she had been burdened with the task to fix the mess that she apparently had no involvement in. He, of course, had more of a hand in the events at the Conclave than he was willing to admit. It didn't matter either way. Solas knew he had to stay and aid in the Herald's mission, bound by his honour, duty and wounded pride. Curse his weakness. His plans were years behind schedule. 

So by the Herald's side he remained. This he didn't mind. Ellana Lavellan already seemed to exceed the low expectations he had of the Dalish. Those he had encountered beforehand had sneered at him, determined to prove their superiority as the "Last of the Elvhenan" that made them superior to "flat-ears", all while flouting genuine Elvhen culture. But Ellana was sincere and open to discussion. She did not mock or demean his intelligence in matters of the Fade or even his knowledge of actual Elvhen culture. Few Dalish had ever taken criticism about their practices from him. They shunned him. Ellana listened to him. 

Solas greatly admired her, for both her intellectualism and her wit. As the weeks went by, his opinion of her only grew. In facing the mages at Redcliffe, she had shown incredible feats of leadership and bravery. Of course, they had yet to return to confront the Magister, Alexius, who had seized their potential mage allies. That was where they were headed.

Since leaving Haven, they'd been travelling for little over three days. The weather had been kind to them, allowing for swift travel with minimal discomfort. Sera, of course, had complained the entire way about her blistered feet and took no greater enjoyment than sticking the disgusting things in his face at any given opportunity. Blackwall was simply happy to be moving freely again. The man seemed to dislike being restricted to one place after roaming Ferelden for so many years, recruiting new Grey Wardens. Simple minds required simple pleasures, it seemed. 

Ellana walked a little ahead of them, as she always did. Perhaps it was because she had been Clan Lavellan's First; forever apart from the rest of the Clan, never quite belonging among the others but still an essential part of the clan hierarchy. Solas was not estranged to the feeling of not belonging. After all, he'd never belonged among the other Evanuris, had he? May the Dread Wolf take you. 

He found himself admiring Lavellan. After all, she was an exquisite creature and he had never pretended to deny himself the simple pleasures in life, either. Something about the beauty of a pretty woman was refreshing. It was a shame about the vallaslin but she was Dalish, after all. They weren't too noticeable, really, due to the richly dark pigment of her skin. His fingers itched to trace those lines but also to remove the cursed things from her skin. She deserved better than what those marks represented. Was this the fate he had resigned his people to? A fate in which many of them were confined to impoverished alienages while the others branded themselves with slave markings in a desperate and foolish attempt to regain what he had destroyed? 

It was her eyes that he found truly diverting. They contradicted the rest of her features, a disturbingly light yellow colour in the midst of a dark complexion and black hair. They were deep set and angular, cat-like. They were beautiful. And they were looking directly at him. 

"We make camp here. I doubt Sera can go much further," she said. Her voice was one he could imagine singing the lullabies that Elvhen mothers once sang to their children. It was deep and broad, unusual for an elf, but lovely nonetheless. 

Sera drew up beside him. "You're bloody right on that one, Buckles. I've met rich tits with less bulge than what my feet have. Geddit? _Bulge_." The girl had the audacity to let loose the snorty laugh that he'd come to despise. Although he greatly desired to bring about the salvation of the Elvhen people, Solas would quite happily see Sera die before she became part of that category, not that she would've desired to be included in any case and had loudly proclaimed several times that she would eat bees before spending excessive time in Elvhen - specifically Solas' - company. 

They found a natural shelter beneath a shelf of rock by the river. Tents were too burdensome to carry, so they travelled light. Blackwall used his outer coat as a bedroll. Sera usually stole someone else's (usually his). Both Ellana and himself were happy to settle anywhere on the ground, so long as it wasn't too rocky. Ellana referred to it as a perk of being Dalish. Solas called it 'easier'. It had made her laugh, in any case. 

The Herald busied herself building a small fire, making sure to use the driest leaves and twigs to create as little smoke as possible. In such a warring landscape, one could never be too careful. Smoke would attract attention that they would rather avoid. 

The party were all filthy, coated in grime and dried blood following their numerous battles and extensive travelling. Ellana was particularly covered. One unfortunate Templar got a little too close and she'd taken a baselard to his carotid artery. She'd been subject to the spray. 

After refilling their water skins - blood and dirt would be an unwelcome addition to water if they did it later on - they all sunk into the river to clean themselves. Solas was grateful for it. He despised being unclean, despite his nomadic lifestyle. Besides, there was something therapeutic and ritualistic about bathing. The chill of the water and the open vulnerability to nature was refreshing. 

Ensuring he was upstream of Sera - who had a vile habit of relieving herself in the water to spite him - he followed the example of the others. Stripping down to their smalls, turning away from each other in an abashed manner, they observed privacy as best they could given the circumstances. They all began by washing the blood from their clothes. It swirled in the water, turning it a rusty colour. He highly doubted the stains would ever come out. Sighing at the fruitlessness of his labours, he slung his clothes over a tree branch to dry alongside Blackwall's. 

Sinking back into the water, he risked a glance in the Herald's direction. She was up to her waist in the water, just slightly downstream from him, teasing her hair from its intricate braids. The process was delicate and almost poleaxing. Solas didn't deny his desire to undo them for her, to run his fingers through the dark strands. She had scrubbed her skin mercilessly until it was meticulously clean. Droplets of water rolled down her body, drawing his eye to the toned muscles of her arms and torso. For a woman in her late thirties, her physique was admirable. The droplets gathered in the hollows of her collarbones and-

\- and the twisting purple scars that ripped across a large portion of her visible body. The sheer attention they demanded was like a physical blow to his chest. An emotion that was too uncommon and deep-rooted for him to name took root in his stomach. For the life of him, he couldn't place what it was. Fear? Definitely not. Anger? Unlikely. It was almost a strange mix of regret and affection.

The scars looked to be incredibly deep, the kind of wound that could only be partially healed by a healing potion, salve or poultice. They were largely concentrated around her hands, forearms and biceps, deep gauges growing sparser as they move further up. As she usually wore gloves, Solas had never even noticed her lack of two fingertips on her right hand. Even when stabilising her Mark, his attention had been focused on her left hand rather than the amputations on her right. The scars continued upwards to her shoulders, intermittent semi-circles and slashes that curved over them before descending onto her back and ribs. There were, of course, the multitude of equally deep and heavy scars on her face but he had always assumed that they were localised to that part of her body. After all, a mage's weakest point was their head or extended arms. 

They troubled him greatly but also stirred a grotesque curiosity. Very few weapons would leave such marks without cleaving entire limbs away. Yet Ellana stood, almost entirely intact. It was perplexing. A demon, perhaps? 

"Oi, Elfy! Takin' a cheeky peek are we? Like what'cha see or are you too up yourself to get up anyone else?" called Sera. She'd noticed his staring and decided to humiliate him by making a spectacle of it. How pleasant.

Ellana, to her credit, did not overreact. She simply turned to look at him, seemingly more in surprise than embarrassment. Her face had flushed spectacularly, but she did not leap about or attempt to dramatically cover herself. 

"Tel'abelas," said Solas. It was true. He was not sorry for staring. She was beautiful and he had made no attempts to conceal his affectionate view of her. "I was admiring your figure."

"Oh, that's it is it? Not too busy staring at her tits?"

Solas spared only a momentary glance at Sera, who had a cunning grin that drew a sneer to his face. Curse that girl. "Unlike you, Sera, my mind is not so vulgar as to express such a lack of decorum and respect for the Herald."

"Pfft, what a load of bloody bollocks."

The Herald straightened, her blush somewhat fading. "Dirthara-ma, lethallin," she said. It was a curse, technically, but her tone was teasing. He smiled. 

Sera, meanwhile, groaned at the overuse of Elvhen. "Use words that mean things!" she hissed before stomping away to sit beside the fire with Blackwall, who had been more than happy to leave the water the second Sera drew attention to Solas' indiscreet staring. 

Ellana approached, her legs stirring the water as she moved. It took a fair strength of will to keep his eyes on her face. "What, pray tell, drew your attention?" she asked, her mouth curled into a smirk. Her eyes were downright dangerous. Solas wasn't sure if her gaze was intimidating or alluring. Both. Both were likely. 

Scooping water up onto his arms to wash away the remaining dirt, he noticed her eyes wander too. He was smiling again when he answered. "What wouldn't draw my attention? You are an exquisite creature. A prime example of your people."

Lavellan raised a brow, but her expression was self-conscious. "I know exactly what you were staring at Solas," she said.

It was his turn to flush. Solas wasn't one to get flustered but her gaze seemed to pierce him. "Do not listen to Sera. It was not-"

"Fenhedis-lasa, no. My _scars_ , not my tits. You were hardly discreet in your staring, you know. I thought you'd forgotten how to blink. I was about to check if you were breathing."

Solas fell silent. It was very rare that he was left speechless, but he could find no way to defend himself that he hadn't already said. She seemed to pick up on this as a grim smile set itself upon her face, twisting the scars that touched her lips. 

"People normally stare. They never ask, just... judge. I figured that you had more tact than that."

"On the contrary, I figured it would be tactless to ask. Scars are private things to many people." He couldn't deny his insatiable curiosity about them. However, in such matters, he was willing to keep this curiosity to himself. Solas figured they'd have plenty of time to get to know each other later on. 

"In my clan, no one talked about them. They all knew, but it was as if they ignored them then they wouldn't be there. The scars... bothered me for a long time. They represented my failure to protect someone I cared deeply about," she said. "I would prefer if you just asked, Solas. It saves time and heartache later."

He was surprised by her bluntness, though he supposed that there was no time like the present. Both still stripped down to their smalls, skin damp, they were as vulnerable as they were likely to be for a while. Vulnerability promoted honesty as a method of self-preservation. "Then how did you receive them?"

Ellana drew her arms around her as if protecting herself. It was a self-conscious gesture. He didn't pretend to be an expert on people and their behaviours. His expertise was rooted in the Fade and ancient lore and he doubted that that would ever change. But there was something about the action that was so clearly pained. Despite the assertiveness of her request, it seemed that she struggled greatly with discussing the event itself. It was, after all, one thing to build up to telling someone something and another kettle of fish entirely to actually relay the story. Painful memories should remain in the past, in his opinion. What use was there to dwell on it? 

She began to walk slowly upstream, implying that he should follow. They stopped just short of the waterfall, close enough for their conversation to be inaudible to the rest of the party. The water was deeper there. It levelled beneath her breast band, swallowing the majority of her damaged body. 

"Twelve years ago, Keeper Deshanna was guiding us around the outskirts of a village near Starkhaven. It was midwinter and a few of our aravels were damaged by the terrain. One of them broke just as we were passing the village, so some of us were sent to appeal for supplies to repair the wheel. The villagers were struggling to support themselves as it was. The harvest had been unsuccessful and what little they had was being picked off by bandits," she paused. "Mahanon and I were instructed to go root some supplies from the woods by the village rather than demand from the townsfolk. O-our son... Fendis was six at the time. He was so excited to gather sticks for firewood. He liked counting them. I remember him waving a stick in the air like a sword. The look on his face- " Ellana stopped, smiling reminiscently. Her hands twisted in the ends of her hair now, untangling the knots. He waited, enthralled despite his certainty that the story would not stay so sweet.

"- he looked as if he'd found the greatest treasure in all Thedas. My husband was laughing at him, as was I. Perhaps if I'd been stricter..." she stopped again, unable to continue. Glancing away, she cast her eyes to the water. "He was chilly, so we lit a fire and told him to wait by it while we finished gathering the supplies. I gave him my cloak. He sat with it wrapped all around him, with only his red little nose poking out." She laughed. "He was adorable."

"I can only imagine," he said softly. Solas had never fathered any children of his own. In his youth, he was far too uncouth and prideful to waste time on such things as settling down. It was clear that Ellana doted on the boy in a way that only a mother could. 

The Herald smiled again, bittersweet. "Yes. He was the light of my life. I was only in twenty when he was born, so perhaps I was too lenient with him."

"That is not a flaw. Children should be cherished, but not coddled."

"I _left_ him in the woods, Solas. He was alone. He was _six_. I was such a _fool_ -" Lavellan stopped herself once more. "Mahanon and I had only been gone for a few minutes. We were heading back towards him but- but they found him first." Her eyes were wet with tears, fat droplets joining the water on her cheeks. Grief rolled off her in waves. It was clear that she tried to suppress it. Twelve years was a long time to mourn, but a child was a heavy loss. 

"Vint slavers were the ones who had been passed off as bandits by the villagers. When the slavers had returned that night, the shems had sold us out to them in return for safety from future pillaging. They were scouring the hills, so the clan had abandoned the broken aravel and moved on, trying to outrun them. The slavers lost them in the trees and with the night drawing in, they couldn't follow the tracks left behind. Instead, they followed the light of the fire. We led them right to our son," Ellana said, her voice almost a whisper. Hatred curled her lip as she talked about the slavers. Resentment like that did not vanish overnight, something that he greatly understood and respected, given the circumstance. "Vint Magisters have no use for tiny knife-ear boys. They wouldn't pay well. When we... when w-we heard him screaming, we dropped everything to run to him. I knew- I _knew_ as soon as I heard them that Fendis was dying. I still hear the screaming. But I was too far away. We-" She touched the scars on her arms carefully, as if the process of tracing them was calming. Her voice was choked. To her credit, she did not completely break down. Over the years, she had cried many tears for her son. 

"We reached the clearing in time to s-see their mabari... ripping my son apart," her thick voice grew hard with rage. The vehemence in her eyes was unparalleled and disturbing. She sneered. It made him feel cold. The way she described it stirred memories that were not his own. He was sure he had seen a similar memory in the Fade, or perhaps among the slaves in Arlathan, all those years before. It was an odd weight to carry, settling in the pit of his stomach, leaving him nauseous.

Ellana ran her hands through her hair as if to distract herself. "Those _shems_ were laughing. Laughing as a six-year-old boy was torn apart in front of their eyes. I ran at the dogs first, trying to save him. I knew that he was gone but... but I had to try, Solas. I _had_ to. They turned on me once they were done with him. One of them had a piece of my cloak trapped in its teeth and I... I don't know. I lost control I guess. It all became a blur after that." Her eyes met his. He held her gaze, unflinching. It was inspiring, the strength she seemed to possess. Perhaps he had misjudged the Dalish. The Herald was unlike any elf he'd ever met, even before his betrayal. She could be instrumental in his plans to reforge the world he had destroyed. Her aid would be invaluable. Then again, could he trust her? Certainly no one would aspire to the destruction of the world, considering how they were currently trying so hard to save it. 

"When I came to, Deshanna was healing me. She said she'd heard the fighting and the clan had arrived just as Mahanon felled the last slaver. She did her best but... some wounds cannot be healed. I supposed I'm lucky to be alive, though for a long time I was not so glad," she said. Her tone wasn't sad. It was clinical. Rehearsed. She'd been preparing herself for this conversation. She glanced at him again. "Given the chance, I would rip those slavers apart again and again for what they did to us... to our son. Mahanon was never the same after that."

Solas frowned. "What happened to him?"

This time, she looked evasive. "He was distant. Unfaithful. He took a liking to beer and had a habit of stealing my lyrium. Anything to distance himself from reality, I suppose. He died at the Conclave."

For a moment, he was silent. He reasoned that an immediate apology would sound insincere, as would one that took too long. Inclining his head, he said, "Ir abelas, lethallan. I did not intend to cause you pain by asking questions. I should not have pried, nor stared."

Lavellan smiled reassuringly. "It's okay, Solas. It's been many years and Mahanon was lost to me for a long time. I mourned him long ago."

Seeing the look in her eyes, the subtle but steely look of strength held there, Solas gained a new level of respect for her. In this world of Tranquil-like mortals, she was perhaps the most surprising of all. After the Conclave, seeing her Vallaslin, he had expected insurmountable stupidity and misplaced pride on her part, yet she continued to prove him wrong. Instead, he'd found unbelievable strength and courage in the face of peril and grief. 

And he couldn't be happier. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I just really like the tropes around scars simply because of the history associated with them and stuff. I also find them really interesting and intimate, something that's a key to their past and offers depth to the character. I also really like the trope of a character looking immensely badass with loads of awesome scars. Sue me. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought.


End file.
